Hey there, readers! I'm ColdNights, and I'm thrilled to have you here at the very beginning of Dawon's journey—one that starts in luxury and mystery but soon unravels into a fate beyond mortal comprehension.
This story is about power, destiny, and the burden of order—but most of all, it's about a man who never asked for any of it. If you love intelligent protagonists, intricate world-building, and a touch of the unknown, then you're in for a ride!
Your support means everything! Leave a comment, drop a review, and add this to your library if you're enjoying it. Every bit of feedback pushes me to write even better!
Now, enough talking—let's step into the unknown together.
– ColdNights
As the three stepped through the gates of the Golden City, Eryndor's breath caught at the sight before him. Perched atop a towering lighthouse, a majestic Chinese dragon lay coiled, its massive form radiating an aura of ancient power. Its golden eyes gleamed with intelligence as it silently surveyed the crowd, its head raised slightly in interest at the travelers passing through the North Gate.
Beside him, Rensuke exhaled in quiet admiration. "No matter how many eons pass, Lord Tianjun has kept his city as pristine as the day it was built."
Draven's brows furrowed. "Eons? Just how old is this city?"
Rensuke chuckled. "Who knows? What I can say for sure is that it has endured at least a dozen cycles. Only Lord Tianjun knows its true age… or perhaps that dragon on the tower does." He gestured toward the great beast. "They say it is Lord Tianjun's eternal companion, born alongside him at the dawn of time."
Eryndor, still unsettled by the whispers at the city gate, finally asked, "I heard an official curse that 'the end of a cycle is here.' What does that mean?"
Draven, equally puzzled, turned his gaze to Rensuke, waiting for an answer.
Rensuke smirked. "Ah… so Lord Sword kept you in the dark to spare you the despair? Hah! I suppose there's no harm in telling you now. Listen well, lads."
He took a deep breath, then spoke.
"Humans measure their time in years, living barely a century at best. But we Celestials… we measure time in cycles. One cycle lasts approximately 4.5 million years—give or take a few tens of thousands, depending on how… intense things get."
Eryndor and Draven exchanged uneasy glances.
Rensuke's voice took on a weightier tone. "By intense, I mean the number of Celestials. As a cycle nears its end, the universe begins birthing more and more minor Celestials—some wielding mere fragments of power, others even rising to become major Celestials in rare cases. This isn't random. It's a sign of the cosmos maturing… and of the older Celestials fighting to survive the cycle's end. They fragment their power, creating new Celestials, forming pacts, strengthening their hold over their domains. It is a dance of survival."
He smirked, though his eyes held something darker. "The number of cycles you survive defines your rank among Celestials. We may not live by a mortal hierarchy, but make no mistake—rank matters. And as for the perks of that rank… well," he leaned in, lowering his voice to a near whisper, "you'll have to survive a cycle to find out."
Silence fell.
Eryndor and Draven stood frozen, their mortal minds struggling to process the sheer scale of what had just been revealed.
This wasn't a secret war between supernatural factions.
This was something far greater.
They had stepped into a world of beings who had always been here, watching, waiting—indifferent to the rise and fall of mortals. And now, they were part of it.
Eryndor snapped back to his senses, his mind latching onto something crucial. "What happens at the end of a cycle? Why do Celestials have to die? Aren't we all supposed to be immortal—indefinitely?"
Rensuke threw his head back and laughed maniacally. "Boy, that's the funniest joke I've heard in ages! You think eternal existence and unimaginable power come without a price?"
His laughter faded, replaced by a grim smirk. "The powers we wield aren't just for show—they are the building blocks of reality itself. The more we expand, the more we influence, the greater the pressure on the very fabric of existence. Eventually, the cosmos can't take it anymore. It becomes unstable."
He leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "And when that happens… the cycle ends."
Draven and Eryndor stood frozen as Rensuke continued. "When the cosmos reaches its limit, it does what it must—it resets itself. Everything that shouldn't exist in the first place is erased."
Rensuke slowly raised a hand, pointing first at Eryndor, then at himself. "Celestials. Those who fail to truly understand themselves or their powers."
Draven frowned. "So… it's not about a Celestial's strength? Strength doesn't determine who survives?"
Rensuke chuckled darkly. "Lad, you still don't get it. There is no 'stronger' or 'weaker' among Celestials. Power is meaningless on its own. Your strength is nothing more than a reflection of how deeply you understand your own power. That understanding… is the only thing that matters."
The weight of his words hung heavy in the air.
"What about the Nine Absolute Beings?" Eryndor asked, his voice filled with curiosity.
Rensuke smirked. "What about them? They're called Absolute Beings for a reason." His eyes gleamed with something close to reverence. "They don't just control their powers perfectly—no, that's not it. They have become their powers. There is no separation, no distinction. They are one."
A shiver ran down Draven's spine as he exchanged a glance with Eryndor. "Wait… are you saying that any Celestial can become an Absolute Being?"
Rensuke burst into laughter, a wild, almost manic sound. "Hehehehe! Technically, boy. Technically. But don't get ahead of yourself—that would take surviving a few thousand cycles at the very least!"
His laughter faded as he continued. "By the end of this cycle, we'll likely have around 5,000 Celestials. Yet, in all of existence, there are only Nine Absolute Beings. Six of them? Born at the dawn of time, woven into the very fabric of the cosmos itself. Only three have ever climbed the ladder from Celestial to Absolute."
He leaned back with a smirk. "So don't overthink it, boys. Forget the Absolutes. Survive first."
As Eryndor and Draven wandered, lost in thought, mulling over the revelations Rensuke had shared, another story unfolded far from their grasp.
In a secluded ranch near Dawon's castle in England, beneath the golden hues of a waning afternoon, Dawon rode one of his favorite horses, a majestic black stallion with a sleek, muscular frame. Usually, he craved the thrill of the wind tearing through his hair, the pounding rhythm of hooves against the earth, the exhilarating sensation of speed as he raced across the open fields.
But today was different.
Today, he merely sat atop the horse, letting it move at its own pace. The powerful beast, sensing its rider's unusual stillness, walked leisurely across the dew-kissed grass, its breaths slow and steady. Dawon absentmindedly ran his fingers through the stallion's flowing mane, his grip loose on the reins, as if he were merely a passenger lost in thought.
The soft crunch of hooves on the dirt path mingled with the distant rustling of trees. A cool breeze carried the scent of fresh earth and wildflowers, the crispness of autumn whispering in the air. Birds chirped somewhere in the distance, their songs weaving into the silence like threads of an unspoken melody.
Dawon's gaze drifted across the landscape—the rolling hills bathed in golden light, the lazy sway of tall grass, the sparkling reflection of a pond nestled beneath a cluster of willows. It was a picture of serenity, yet inside, his mind was anything but calm.
For years, he had struggled to understand himself, his lack of attachment, the emotional void where grief should have been. His parents—his grandfather—were the architects of his privileged, princely life, yet he felt nothing for them. Not love. Not loss. Not even resentment.
Perhaps, he had once reasoned, it was because they had all died before he had even turned a year old. He had never known them, never spent time with them. But wasn't that precisely why orphans usually felt grief? A sense of longing for what they had never had?
Yet, he felt nothing.
The horse let out a soft huff, its ears twitching as if picking up on its rider's unease. Dawon barely noticed.
It was that emptiness that led him to start digging for answers.
He began with the official records of his parents. Their deaths. The accident that had supposedly taken them away.
And then… the first anomaly.
His "mother" didn't exist.
No birth certificate. No legal records. Not a single trace of her in any database. As if she had never been born.
His father, however, had a presence in the records—but this only made things more bizarre.
His father had been the sole heir to his grandfather's multi-billion-dollar empire but had gone missing years before the so-called accident that allegedly claimed his parents' lives. Even more unsettling, there were no records of any accident. Not even a minor news article reporting the death of an heir to such an empire.
And then, his grandfather—a "God-fearing man," deeply devoted to the Church. A man so publicly revered… yet, there had been no funeral for his son, no memorial, no acknowledgment of any loss.
Only after his grandfather's death did Dawon's existence become public knowledge—as the rightful successor to everything.
It was a revelation that left more questions than answers.
A gust of wind swept through the trees, causing the leaves to rustle like whispers. Dawon exhaled slowly, his hand tightening around the reins. The stallion, ever attuned to its rider's emotions, flicked its ears back and slowed even further, hooves sinking slightly into the damp earth.
And then, there was his surname—Order.
Neither his father's family nor his mother's lineage bore that name. So why Order? What did it mean?
At first, Dawon had assumed he was merely a pawn in some grand political or financial scheme, his inheritance a carefully placed piece in a game played by those far more powerful than him. But as he unlocked his visions, the terrifying truth began to take shape.
Maybe… he wasn't even human.
Over the past week, the visions had become almost instinctual—he could summon them at will now. And what he saw defied logic.
A vast web of silver and gold threads, stretching endlessly, connecting everything and everyone around him—like the unseen strands of a cosmic spider's web.
A shiver ran down his spine. The horse snorted softly, shifting its weight, as if uneasy.
Deep inside him, questions clawed at his soul.
Who am I?
What do these visions mean?
What is my connection to the name "Order"?
And more than anything…
What am I becoming?